


2017 Advent Fic: And May All Your Christmases Be Bright

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12919098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: When one of Professor Harry Potter's students turns up with a new tattoo, Harry is determined to put the artist on notice. Until he finds out who it is.





	1. Are Gryffindor’s Brave, or Just Stupid? (2017 Advent – Part One)

Harry Potter sat at the massive desk in the quarters attached to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, grading a particularly bad foot of parchment on how to produce a Patronus charm. Sometimes he despaired of these students making their way through his course, although even he could admit he was a much tougher instructor than most of his own Dark Arts teachers had been. One of his sixth year students had even come up with a clever title for him: Harry Potter, the DADA Rotter. Ron thought it was hilarious, and told him he was in danger of turning into a right old stick in the mud. At nearing thirty three, Harry didn’t find jokes about his being a ‘right old’ anything very amusing. 

He had enough aches and pains left over from the war to be aware of every one of those thirty three years. In fact, he’d been bent over the stack of essays for – he looked up at the clock over the fireplace – Merlin, nearly three hours, and he was scheduled to meet Ron for drinks in a little under forty five minutes. He still had the walk into town to accomplish it, and that took nearly half an hour. Pushing back his chair he rose, arching his back until there was a loud pop that caused a twinge low in his spine. Grimacing, he straightened and crossed the room to take his outer robes off a hook near the door. They were black, and Ron said if he wasn’t careful he was going to turn into Snape. The portrait of their old Potions Master that hung in the hallway outside of the Great Hall probably wouldn’t agree, if the way he looked down that long nose at Harry was anything to go by. Of course, Harry liked to stick his tongue out at him when no one was looking. It was somewhat disturbing to know the old bastard had once lusted after his mother. 

He was turning down all of the lights in his quarters but for the one nearest the door when he heard the murmur of voices coming from the large classroom at the base of the short set of stairs outside of his door. He rolled his eyes, buttoning his robes and heading for the door. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught students using the DADA room for something other than study after hours; for some reason the little twits seemed to forget his apartment was right up the stairs. He opened the heavy oak door and looked into the shadowy classroom beyond.

Just as he’d thought. There were two figures near the rear of the room, the taller, more masculine shaped one leaning against a heavy wooden desk, the shorter, curvier one leaning in against him. The boy had removed his shirt and Harry frowned when he recognized the pale shoulders and the thick head of russet curls.

“Art…Uhm,Mr. Weasley?” He remembered to address the student by his surname at the last moment. His deep voice carried and the bare shoulders stiffened. The boy turned his head. The room echoed with the heavy silence that followed.

Seventeen year old Arthur Lorenzo Weasley blinked his wide grey eyes, clearly surprised to find his ‘Uncle’ Harry in the private quarters of his classroom. 

“What exactly are you and Ms. Hereford doing in my classroom?” Harry’s voice echoed menacingly off of the stones in the walls and floor. He’d discovered that little trick barely a week in residence. It made him sound much more imposing than he was.

“I thought… I mean, we thought… I mean…” His voice stammered to a halt, the deep red blush on his cheeks visible even in the dim room. He looked at the ceiling. “Gods, I’m buggered.”

Charlie Weasley and his lover Antonio Bellagio had adopted Artie when he was three, right after the war. His parents had disappeared in a Death Eater raid and the terrified toddler had been found cowering in a cupboard in the kitchen. He told Charlie his Mummy had put him there and told him to be a good boy, and he’d asked Charlie if he’d been good. Charlie’s heart was both broken, and became Artie’s, forever after that moment. Molly considered it providential that Artie was both a ginger, and named Arthur.

Harry came down the stairs slowly, his eyes going from his mortified adopted nephew to the girl, who seemed frozen in place in horror.

“Would you care to tell me why you’re in my classroom, after hours, without your shirt?”

“It’s not what it looks like, sir,” Artie said quickly. 

“No, it really isn’t, Professor,” Candy Hereford said, twisting her hands in front of her. “We weren’t doing anything. He was just showing me his new tattoo.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as Artie moaned softly. “His new _what_?”

Neither of them would answer, attempting to look anywhere but at Harry. Finally, Harry snapped his fingers. “Front and center, Weasley.” 

Artie lurched into motion. He came to Harry, his arms crossed uncomfortably over his pale chest. Harry waited just long enough for the boy to start squirming. 

“Show me, Arthur,” Harry ordered finally. “Now.”

Artie hesitated and Harry narrowed his eyes. Apparently realizing that hacking off his uncle, especially when said uncle was Harry Potter, was probably a very bad idea, Artie thrust out his arm. From his wrist to the bend of his elbow was a beautifully rendered griffin. Harry bent to study it more carefully, admiring it in spite of himself. As he stared, the griffin turned his regal head and pinned Harry with a baleful stare. A magical tattoo, then. Harry sighed.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sakes, Artie. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I… I just…”

“Wasn’t.” Harry shook his head. “Clearly. And what exactly do you plan to tell your father’s?”

Artie’s chin went up. “I’m seventeen, sir. I can do what I want.”

Harry pinned him with a sardonic look. “And you plan to tell Angelo that, do you? To his face?” Angelo could be ferocious when he was angry, so much so that Harry avoided pissing him off. The pink in Artie’s cheeks faded abruptly, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Just thought of that, did you? You do understand that as your Head of House, I’m supposed to be responsible for you. Which means that not only do you have to discuss this with Angelo, I get to try to explain to him how it managed to happen on my watch.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Harry. I’ll tell him, and I’ll explain you didn’t have anything to do with it.” Artie looked like he might vomit, and Harry rolled his eyes.

“Oh, put your shirt on,” he said as sternly as he could manage in the face of such self-sacrifice. “And Miss Hereford, you’re dismissed to your house. Now.”

The girl scuttled away, disappearing out the door with one wistful look back. Harry shook head. 

“So, this was about a girl?”

“No,” Artie said with as much determination as a just seventeen year old with goose pimples on his skinny shoulders could manage. “I got it because I thought it was cool.” He gave Harry a pleading look. “You think it’s cool, don’t you?”

Harry couldn’t bear to burst that tentative bubble. “Yes, Artie. I do think it’s cool. It’s an extremely well done tattoo. You only have one problem.” His eyes wide, Artie pulled his uniform shirt over his shoulders and it suddenly dawned on Harry that he could have shown Hereford the tattoo by rolling up his sleeve. Cleary, he was going to have to keep a closer eye on these two.

“What’s that, Uncle Harry?”

“Angelo was a Slytherin, Art, and I doubt he’s going to be much impressed with your griffin. My advice?” He patted Artie on his shoulder as he pulled his gray house sweater over his head. “Hide behind Charlie when you show him the tattoo. As for me?” he shoved his hands into his pockets as he and Artie headed out of the classroom. “I intend to avoid him for the next oh… ten years or so.”

“You won’t tell him, then?” Artie asked hopefully.

“Oh, hell no, Art. I won’t tell him.” He gave the boy a sideways grin. “But I anticipate hearing the explosion from Romania when you do.”

Art looked a bit green around the edges. “You aren’t funny, Uncle Harry.”

Harry shook his head ruefully. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

TBC


	2. Friday Night and Shepherd's Pie

“It’s about time, son,” Ron Weasley called when he saw Harry tramping up the snowy lane towards Hogsmeade. “’Bout froze our berries off, standing her waiting.”

“Charming.” Hermione Granger-Weasley gave her husband a long suffering look, and Harry was forcefully reminded of the eleven year old with the bushy hair he’d met on the Hogwarts Express so many years before. “But I don’t have berries, and I don’t believe you were loud enough for everyone between here and London to hear you.”

Harry smiled and pulled her into a hug. “Hello, Chief Prosecutor. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

She returned his hug with a warm smile. “Well, Ron told me he planned to meet you for a pint, which I knew would turn into four. If I didn’t come with him to side-along him home, he’d no doubt splinch himself into a tree.”

“Oy.” Ron scowled when Harry smiled. “I could walk, you know.” Mr. and Mrs Weasley lived above the Hogsmeade location of Weasley Wizard’s Wheezes. It was in the old Zonko’s building, and the two bedroom apartment upstairs had been used for storage until Hermione had had it remodeled. As far as he knew, she had the only private floo directly connected to the DMLE in Scotland. 

“You could walk,” she said, amiably linking her arm through Harry’s. “But you could also end up frozen in a ditch. Besides, I’m starving and rumour has it Rosie’s cook made her Shepherd’s Pie for dinner.” She smiled up at Harry as she led him toward the door to the Three Broomsticks. “Are you hungry?”

“For Rosie’s Shepherd’s Pie? Always.”

They were able to get a table near the huge, blackened fireplace in the center of the busy pub. Even with the warming charm Harry had cast on his feet before starting the long walk into Hogsmeade, he was chilled through and the fire felt wonderful. He ordered two pints and a glass of white wine, and a large pie for the whole table. He slipped the black robes from his shoulders, sending them to hang on the coat rack in the corner with a wave of his wand. 

Harry pulled out Hermione’s chair for her, then sat in his own. Hermione sat after giving her husband a pointed look. Ron plopped into his chair, then noticed his wife’s baleful stare. 

“What?” 

She shook her head. “Hopeless. Honestly.”

Harry grinned. He hadn’t seen her in weeks and he’d missed their gentle squabbling. “So, how go things with the savior of the DMLE prosecutor’s office?”

Hermione’s cheeks turned pink. She’d risen through the ranks at the prosecutor’s office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with impressive speed, and was currently working directly with the Head Auror and the Minister on re-writing part of the criminal codes.

“Hardly that.” She took a sip of her wine. “We’re just re-writing and clarifying some of the codes. But it’s exhausting and frustrating. How go things with educating Britain’s future witches and wizards?”

“Exhausting and frustrating,” Harry answered, saluting her with his tankard. “I hope to God we weren’t as thick as some of these kids.”

She laughed. “Some of us were.” She gave Ron a fond smile. “And still he somehow managed to grow up into a successful businessman and a contributing member of society.”

Ron grinned. “Aye, the woman loves me. She can’t help it; I’m irresistible.”

Harry laughed and took another drink of his beer. It felt good to sit with his friends, catching up at the end of the week. It had been a long time since they’d done this, and he’d missed them. 

“Are you ready to send them all off for hols?”

“Oh, yes. These last two weeks are crawling.”

The waitress delivered their pie and plates, and Hermione served large portions for him and Ron, and a much smaller one for herself. 

“Oh, and speaking of hols,” Harry picked up his fork, slipping it through the brown crust on the soft potatoes on top of the lamb, onion and carrot stew beneath, “I think your nephew is in for a long holiday.”

“Oh, Gods, which one?” Ron shoveled a huge bite of the pie into his mouth.

There were four Weasley’s at Hogwarts, from Artie down to freckled faced first year Roland, Percy and Penelope’s oldest.

“Artie, actually.”

Hermione looked surprised. “Artie? He’s usually the most sensible of the lot.”

Harry took a bite of his dinner, sighed as the savory flavor filled his mouth and smiled slowly when he’d swallowed. “I think love makes fools of the best of men.”

“Oh, not that Hereford chit?” she asked with a sniff. “I don’t think she’s a very good influence.”

Ron chuckled. “You just don’t like her mother.” 

Candy Hereford’s mother was the former Millicent Bulstrode, who Hermione still held responsible for partially turning her into a cat during their second year.

“I just think she’s entirely too full of herself. And I don’t think she’s good for Artie.”

“Well, he had his shirt and his jumper off by the time I got down into the classroom.”

“Well done, Art.” Ron grinned when Hermione smacked him.

“It’s not funny, Ron,” she said sternly. “They could get up to…things they aren’t ready for.”

“Oh, I think that ship has sailed,” Harry said wryly. Hermione looked horrified, and he held up one hand. “No, I don’t think they’re having sex. But in an effort to impress her, he got himself a fairly impressive tattoo, I’m assuming at the new place here in Hogsmeade.”

“A magical one?” Hermione asked, her brown eyes wide. A regular Muggle tattoo could be removed fairly easily, but a magical one was permanent.

“Afraid so. A pretty fierce griffin, from his wrist to his elbow.”

“Brilliant.” Ron looked awed. Hermione turned to him, incredulous. “What? Charlie won’t care. Half his body is inked.”

“Ron, _Angelo_ is going to kill him.” 

Ron grimaced. “Oh, you’re right. Damn, poor kid.”

“I can’t believe the city council let a shop like that open so close to the school. I mean, honestly, the population of Hogsmeade isn’t big enough to support that business. Clearly, it was aimed at the students.”

“I doubt it was specifically, Hermione,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Tattoo artist’s business is based on their reputation. People will come from all over if the artist is good enough.”

“Spoken like someone who knows,” she answered, giving him a speculative look. “Something you want to tell us, Harry?”

Harry glanced at Ron, who knew all about the snitch tattoo he had just inside his left hipbone. At least, that’s where it had been that morning when he showered. It moved over his skin between his collar bones and his hips. It was charmed to never appear on any exposed skin. He’d got it just after the war when he’d been eighteen, not much older than Artie. Ron gave him a subtle wink and sat back in his chair.

“I only know because I’ve heard it somewhere, Hermione, and it sounded reasonable. I have to tell you; the work is really good. I don’t know where I’ve seen a better looking griffin.”

“That’ll carry some weight with Charlie.” Ron grinned. “And really piss Angelo off.”

“My thought exactly,” Harry agreed. “I wonder if I ought to mention this to Minerva. If the kids are going to start turning up with tattoo’s, were likely to have some seriously hacked off parents.”

Ron shook his head. “Minerva knows all about it. Apparently the owner went to clear it with her before he ever opened.”

“Really? And she said ‘yes’?”

“She also said she knew a reputable business would require their clients to produce identification proving they were seventeen. And if a seventeen year old Hogwarts student wasn’t smart enough to either talk to his parents first, or hide it from them, they were too dumb to be allowed a magical education.”

Harry sputtered a laugh. “Gods, that sounds just like her.”

“I think the fact the owner is an alumni helped her decision. And maybe Artie can just wear long sleeves until he leaves for uni in the fall.”

She looked between the two men. “Neither of you will tell Charlie and Angelo?”

They looked at each other, then shook their heads, speaking in unison. “Nooooo.”

Conversation went off onto other topics after that, and the matter of the tattoo was forgotten. So forgotten that it wasn’t until Harry was walking under the Hogsmeade sign, planning on the long walk back to school clearing his slightly muzzy head, when he recalled Ron had said the tattoo parlour was owned by an alumni. He turned to call after Ron and Hermione but they were already going through the front door of WWW’s.

Slipping his hands into the deep pockets of his robes, Harry started back past the three broomsticks. Hogsmeade wasn’t big; he imagined he could find the tattoo parlour.

TBC


	3. A White Fox By Any Other Name

The snow down the middle of the main street in Hogsmeade was trampled flat and icy beneath his feet, and Harry walked with the exaggerated care of someone who’d had more than their fair share of beer with his friends. He passed Honeydukes, which had been remodeled and expanded after the war, and Gladrags Wizardwear which featured an elaborate display of all four Hogwarts house winter robes. He’d never got one himself; they were heavy wool, which was appropriate for the Scottish winter but not so much for the inside of the castle other than the dungeons. Might explain why so many Slytherins wore the damned things. 

It was well past nine and most of the stores were closed, but up ahead he could see bright squares of light reflecting off of the dingy snow on the road. As he got closer, he seemed to remember it had been a tailors shop before the war. The wood of the store front and the trim had been painted a neat pale blue, and a large sign hung above the front window, featuring an elegant animal with large pointed ears and expressive black eyes, lying on a bed of snow. It looked out from its painted den, so real it might almost flick its tail and disappear from sight. Beneath it was painted the words _Renard Artique_. Harry knew enough to recognize that it was French, but that was as far as it went. All in all, the place looked like a sandwich shop more than a tattoo parlour, and he curiously approached the window.

There were two men inside. One, an enormous fellow with wiry reddish hair and the build of a dock worker, leaned back in a chair that looked like the recliner his Uncle Vernon had spent ninety percent of his waking hours in when he was home from the plant. This one was black leather instead of the hideous floral print his aunt had picked out, which made it look sleek and serviceable instead of lumpy. He was wearing a tank type shirt, and his arms were enormous. Once he got past his astonishment at the barrel shaped appendages and huge hands, Harry’s eyes were pulled to the other man.

He had his back to the window, sitting on a swiveling, rolling stool and leaning over a low table. He was wearing black jeans so tight it was a wonder he could breathe, and leather half boots with a heel and pointed toes. A snug black shirt covered him to his wrists, and on the back his neck what looked like a woody vine marked his skin, curling out from his low collar to end just beneath his right ear. His head was shaved close to his skin on the left side and when he glanced back at his client, a long swatch of soft white blonde hair swung down over his right eye. Harry took a half step back, his heart leaping into his throat. 

He hadn’t seen him in years, not since the trials at the Ministry but there was no mistaking who it was. Harry had testified at his trial, and at his mother’s. They’d exchanged a few words and Harry had returned his wand, and that had been it. He’d looked awful back then, drawn and gray, so thin he’d been brittle. The glance he’d exchanged with Harry just before he walked away with his mother had haunted Harry for months. 

He wasn’t thin now. He was slender, but there was unmistakable muscle beneath the snug clothes. He had a metal stud in his right ear and what Harry would swear was black kohl around the large, pale gray eyes. Harry felt like someone had slugged him right in his solar plexus. He’d always been good looking, but this incarnation of his old school mate his chest ache and sent the alcohol in his system swimming right to his head. 

Draco Malfoy was back in Scotland. And as he gave his client a cheeky grin before leaning in and bringing the tattoo gun to his ruddy skin, he was so fucking beautiful he stole Harry’s breath clean away.

TBC


	4. An Exercise in Humiliation

Malfoy lifted his head to say something to the mountain of a man in his tattooing chair, and his eyes drifted toward the window. He went still, staring, and Harry realized with a spurt of horror that he was looking at _him_. Thinking only of making a graceful escape, he took an abrupt step back and his foot came down on the small, solid ice berm lining the walkway. 

He was going down, and knew a moment of absolute helplessness when there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do to stop it. Feeling as if he was moving in slow motion, his foot slid down the ice and out from under him, only instead of pitching him onto his arse, his momentum threw him into the large window first. His face bounced off of the glass, making a sound like a roll of thunder, shaking the pane in its frame. Then he went down, hitting his tailbone on a lump of ice before sprawling in the street. The silence immediately following was broken only by his long, low groan.

Gods, his arse hurt. And his face. And his back. And his pride.

“Harry? Merlin, man, are you hurt?”

Eddy, the old man who ran the chestnut cart each night in front of the Hog’s Head, apparently happened to be passing by and he came over as fast as his arthritic knees would allow. 

“That had to hurt,” Eddy went on. “Gods, son, you bounced when you landed. Do you want me to send a quick owl up to the campus so they can come and get you?”

“No,” Harry managed when he was able to pull air into his lungs again. 

His hope that only Eddy actually witnessed and would comment on his complete mortification was dashed when the door to the tattoo shop opened, letting out the sound of classical music. The thought that it seemed very odd to hear classical music coming from a tattoo shop, particularly with the bruiser who’d been in the chair, was obliterated when the soft scent of a woodsy, spicy cologne wafted over his face. Then Malfoy was there, kneeling effortlessly at his side, leaning over to look into his face. 

“Are you alive?” he asked, his brow quirking.

“No,” Harry answered. “Absolutely not.”

Malfoy shook his head. “Only you, Potter.”

“’Only me, what?” 

A smile spread over his shapely lips. “Only you could commit suicide by face planting on my window.”

“I didn’t do that,” Harry said uselessly. “And I’m not Harry Potter. I’m someone poly-juiced to look like him.”

“Right.” Malfoy offered his hand. “Can you get up?”

Harry honestly wasn’t sure he could move, despite the fact that he really, really wanted to take Malfoy’s hand. He looked up at him helplessly, and some of the humor left Malfoy’s face.

“Are you genuinely injured?” he asked softly. “Do you need me to send a patronus to Patel?”

Padma had taken over for Madame Pomfrey, and was in her third year as the staff Healer at Hogwarts. Harry supposed it wasn’t really that big a surprise Malfoy would know that. He did mental inventory for a moment, trying to decide if he’d actually broken anything. His arms and legs were okay, but he wasn’t sure about his tailbone.

“Oh, he’s Harry fucking Potter, ain’t he?”

Of course, Malfoy’s client had to have come out to add to his mortification. 

“Even Voldemort couldn’t take this little fella out. Here, I’ve got ya.”

“Rodney, I’m not certain…”

Apparently Malfoy’s client wasn’t much interested in his tattoo artist’s opinion, or in Harry’s for that matter. Before he knew what was happening, Harry was grabbed under his arms and lifted to his feet. All he could do was stiffen his knees and hope to God he didn’t complete the evening by toppling back over onto his arse. Pain shot down both of his legs and clenched his teeth to hold in a groan.

Everyone around him, which now included the lady who ran the sandwich shop next door and who was leaning out of her second story window, stared at him as the silence spread out uncomfortably. Harry stood stiffly on legs that felt utterly wrong but refused to allow himself so much as a grimace.

“I’m fine,” he said finally. “Truly.”

‘Rodney’ clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down again. Harry bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood, but he didn’t fall.

“See? Told ya,” he boomed. “Bloody Potter’s too tough to be taken out by a puny fall on the ice. Come on, Malfoy. I ain’t got all night.” He turned and trundled back into the tattoo shop, and the lady upstairs closed her window but Malfoy stood at his side, arms out as if to catch Harry should he fall.

“You certain you’re all right?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said firmly. “Perfect. Brilliant.”

“Liar.” He turned to Eddy. “You know Weasley, right?”

“Oh, aye,” Eddy said, nodding quickly. “Should I get ‘im?”

“No, I’m fine.” Harry glared at Eddy, who never could take a hint.

“Either him or the wife.”

Eddy toddled off and Harry finally allowed himself to bend and put his hands on his knees, mostly so he wouldn’t have to look Malfoy in the face. He’d made a right fool of himself before in front of Malfoy, but he thought this might be the worst. 

“She wouldn’t appreciate you calling her ‘the wife’, you know,” Harry said, just to try to take Malfoy’s attention away from him. 

“Then she shouldn’t have married him,” Mafloy said with trademark snark. For a moment Harry thought he felt a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, then it was gone. 

“You going to be all right until one of them get here?” Malfoy asked softly. “Rodney’s not the most patient man…”

“No, go. I told you, I’m fine.”

“Gods, you’re a stubborn arse.”

“Malfoy!” Rodney roared. 

“Yeah, Rodney. I hear you.” He lowered his voice. “And so did all the dead in Scotland.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He let out a weak laugh.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice carried across the mostly deserted street, and Harry fought back a groan. He’d been hoping for Ron. “Oh, dear, are you hurt? Is he hurt?”

“Well, I don’t imagine it felt good,” Malfoy answered. “I’ve work to do.” He turned to walk away but stopped in his doorway. “Unique way to re-introduce yourself, Potter. I may never wash the window, just to prove it actually happened.” He disappeared back inside after giving Harry a faint smile.

“Harry, what was he talking about?” Hermione asked.

Harry looked up at the window and winced. Clear on the glass was the imprint of the right side of his face, smushed enough that it might not be recognizable. If he was lucky. 

“Oh, Harry did a right face plant on the window before falling on his arse,” Eddy offered helpfully. Harry rolled his head to give him a death glare, but he doubted the old fart would get it. He smiled at Harry. “It was impressive, mate, I must say.”

Harry found himself wondering if he could get away with murder. 

TBC


	5. On Bus, Will Travel

“I think this is ridiculous.” Harry scowled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So you’ve said.” Hermione pulled her handbag up higher on her shoulder. “Repeatedly.” She sniffed and looked off down the road toward the entrance to Hogsmeade.

“Honestly, Hermione. I’m fine. I don’t need to go to St. Mungo’s. And I certainly don’t need to take the bloody Knight bus to get there.”

“You heard Padma. She said your tailbone is broken, and there is possible damage to your sciatic nerve. She doesn’t want to give you pain potions because she doesn’t want to mask your symptoms, and the bus will be safer for you than to Floo or Apparate, in case of a fall.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never ridden the ruddy bus. You get tossed around like a quaffle.”

“And,” Hermione went on as if he hadn’t interrupted her, “she says that if you’ll just keep the appointment with the specialist, you can come home healed tonight rather than limp around for the next six weeks.”

“It’s not as bad today,” he muttered. “The Skelegrow took care of the worst of it.”

“Padma doesn’t agree, Harry. She knows she hasn’t the equipment to pin point and repair that kind of nerve damage, and she wants you to not have a permanent limp, which is possible. Why are you being so unreasonable about this?”

“Because it’s my bloody arse, Hermione! How would you like to have to walk into – “

“Limp.” 

He gave her an exasperated look. “What?”

“Limp. You are not walking, you are limping.”

“I’m not the first person to come down with a limp.”

“It isn’t a cold. You’re not coming down with it. You took a nasty fall, on ice, and the Hogwarts Healer doesn’t feel qualified to treat the residual damage. And you would be the first person that we know of who tried to teach advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts for the last two weeks before hols with sciatic nerve damage.”

“Gods, stop saying that! It’s not damage. It’s… it’s…”

She stared at him, her head cocked to one side and her lips pursed. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered. “Fine. Just stop acting like I’m some sort of invalid, will you please. And I could get there by myself, you know.”

“I don’t trust you to actually go.” She sniffed just as there was a loud bang and the purple three decker bus rolled to a halt in front of them. The doors across from the driver opened, and an older man with weather reddened cheeks and nose stepped into the doorway wearing the purple uniform and yellow hat Stan Shunpike had worn the first time Harry had seen the bus. Stan had never reappeared after the war, and Harry felt a pang of regret. 

“London and all points south, with a special pickup for Mr. Harry Potter and Ms. Hermione Granger-Weasley,” the old man announced, and Harry rolled his eyes. He stepped up to the door, using the cane Padma had forced into his hand the night before. He was just glad it had been too late, and was too early on a Saturday morning for any of the students to see him hobbling around. He hated that he actually needed the damned thing, and that maneuvering on the ice with it was awkward as shite. The old man watched him over the top of his spectacles, reaching out an arthritic hand when Harry wasn’t able to make the step up on the first try.

“Need a hand there, Mate?”

Harry firmed his jaw in annoyance. “No, I’ve got it, thanks.” He grabbed the railing and yanked himself up to the platform, wobbling a bit before he steadied. 

“Poor thing,” he heard the old man say behind him. “Who knew Harry Potter was so frail? I thought he was in his twenties?”

“Oh, he is,” Hermione replied conspiratorially. “But the war, you know. I hope we can count on your discretion? We don’t want everyone to know how very frail he is.”

Harry shot a murderous look at her over his shoulder, twice as irritated when he saw the angelic look of innocence on her face.

Leaving her behind, he limped into the open main room with the cots in it, lined up beneath a large chandelier that was still swinging with the motion of the braking of the bus. Feeling Hermione’s eyes, Harry went to the nearest cot and lowered himself to it carefully. Pain shot down his right leg, and he caught his breath before stretching out, rolling to his side facing the back of the bus. Hermione crossed at the foot of his cot, sitting primly on the one next to him, holding her purse and crossing her ankles. He huffed, looking away from her satisfied expression and out through the window by his head. Someone was walking down the wooden sidewalk and he stiffened, lifting onto his elbow, ignoring the pain that the movement instigated.

Malfoy moved like a body through water; silky, smooth, unconsciously graceful. The obscenely tight pants were gray today, and the boots were back. He was wearing a black pea coat, a chunky blue and red striped scarf around his neck, and a snug blue hat pulled down over his ears, forcing that swatch of white hair in a swoop to curl around his right eye onto his cheekbone. He was gorgeous and just watching him made Harry feel light-headed. Malfoy had just arrived at his shop and was unlocking the door when the bus lurched into motion and Harry had to grab the metal headboard of the cot or risk being pitched onto the floor. He glanced over at Hermione, just in time to catch the amused expression on her face.

“I just remembered I hate you,” he muttered.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, speaking to him as if he was an addled squirrel, “you don’t. You love me. Remember? I’m one of your oldest, dearest friends.”

“Poor lamb,” the old conductor said from behind him, sotto voce as if he thought there was something wrong with Harry’s hearing, too, “is it the mind gone, as well?”

Hermione gave him an exaggerated, sad smile. She placed her finger in front of her lips. “Discretion, Gerry. Discretion.”

Leave it to Hermione to have caught the old fart’s name. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Of course, of course,” Gerry said. “Would he fancy some tea, or is he unable to handle it on his own?”

Hermione pretended to think about it while Harry shot her daggers.

“Have you a bib?” she said finally.

“I hate you so much." Harry muttered.

“Now, we’ve been through this, Harry.” Her smile was so sickeningly sweet he was amazed it didn’t give everyone type two diabetes. “You love me.”

“Poor lamb,” Gerry muttered. “Poor, dear lamb.”

“Fuck me,” Harry sighed.

“Well, now, I offered tea, young man,” the old man said, clearly affronted. “I didn’t say anything else was on the table.”

Hermione crowed while Harry buried his face in his pillow.

TBC


	6. St Mungo's Is A Pain In the Arse

Harry slid into the booth in the restaurant, immediately laying his head back on the padding in the seat. Hermione had directed them to a Muggle pub not far from the apparition point near the entrance to Diagon, intentionally staying out of the wizarding world. The appearance of two thirds of the golden trio in St Mungo’s had already created a furor in the halls of the hospital and Harry, never comfortable with people making a fuss, endured having his arse checked by what felt like most of London. 

He’d just endured one of the longest days of his life, and he was exhausted. His injury had been more serious than even Hermione realized, and he had to admit coming to St. Mungo’s had been the right thing to do even if it had been, quite literally, a major pain in his arse. The actual treatment hadn’t been that arduous; finding the exact spot of the damage to the large nerve had been what had taken four hours and hurt like bloody hell. But the relief when the Healer found and healed the injury was worth the time and trouble to get there. Now, he just wanted to lie down and go to sleep.

“Oh, look at that lovely view,” Hermione said. “Look, Harry.”

He lifted his head, looking blearily out through the large window beside them. It was, in truth, a lovely view. Big Ben stood in all its regal splendor on the other side of the Thames, back lit by a spectacular sunset. It reminded him of a book he’d found in the bin when he’d been seven. Dudley wasn’t much for reading and it infuriated him when he got books as gifts, and they almost uniformly went right in the bin. If Harry was sneaky enough, and he’d learned how to be in order to avoid a beating, he could add a new book to his meager collection. Peter Pan had been a favorite, read so many times he knew it by heart and the pages were tattered. There had been an illustration of Peter, Wendy, John and Michael circling Big Ben. He smiled faintly.

“It is beautiful,” he agreed. The waitress smiled at him, and it dawned on him they’d probably been seated in the prime location because she liked the way he looked. He returned her smile anemically.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

“I’ll have tea,” Hermione spoke up, “Earl Grey, if you please. And my friend will have a Guinness.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Harry sighed. “I love you.”

The waitress’s smile cooled slightly and she walked away.

“There’s another heart broken by Harry Potter.” Hermione grinned.

“She’s not my type.” He put his head back and closed his eyes.

“Oh, I’m well aware of your type.” When Harry lifted his head to glare at her, her grin had turned to a smirk. 

“What the hell does that mean?”

The smirk dissolved and her cinnamon brown eyes grew soft. She reached across the table and laid her hand on top of one of his. “Sweetheart. You’ve had the same type since sixth year, and it hasn’t altered a bit.”

Harry looked away from those far too understanding eyes. “Ginny and I broke it off a long time ago.”

“Very cute.” She pinched the back of his hand, then pulled hers away when their drinks arrived.

After that Harry studied the menu, determined not to pay any attention to her knowing look. They ordered, Harry a massive burger and Hermione a salad, and conversation was reduced to passing the condiments for a good quarter of an hour. When Harry had demolished his burger, he wiped his mouth and sat back, assessing the likelihood that Hermione would let him lay down and take a nap right there. Knowing she wouldn’t, he watched her take the last few delicate bites of her salad. 

“Are you ready to go?” she asked after she’d primly dabbed her lips. “I can take you in a side along if you’re feeling the drink.”

“Only a little.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself, but it had to be said. “I guess I can see why you didn’t tell me.”

She didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. It was one of the things he loved best about her, the fact that she didn’t humour him or pretend he was dim. “We talked about telling you at dinner last night, but then decided it was better if you found out on your own.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry about that. I doubt you’d have had such a shocked reaction if we’d just told you.”

Harry had to agree with that, but he was past being annoyed at his best friends. He’d honestly thought he was over the silly crush he’d developed on Malfoy during school. And if it hadn’t been for another night, and another two or nine pints of Guinness, he’d have never told Ron and Hermione that he’d been crushing on Malfoy since sixth year. Nearly killing him with Sectumsempra had been the source of nightmares for years. 

“I thought he’d end up a potions master or something,” Harry said. “I had no idea he could even draw.”

“Really?” she gave him a slight grin. “I seem to remember a cartoon he sent you once, of you getting hit in the head with a bludger…”

Harry couldn’t help his smile. “It showed promise as an animator, I suppose but the style was lacking.”

“You don’t remember seeing him carrying around a notebook, doodling in it?”

Harry had to think about that. “I suppose I do,” he admitted. “I just had no idea he was any good. I have to tell you, Hermione. Artie’s tattoo is really impressive.”

“And he managed to do a griffin, on a Gryffindor, without hexing it to make obscene gestures.”

Harry thought about the way the griffin had turned his head, and its regal stare. “No, no obscene gestures.”

“Maybe he’s grown up more than some of the rest of us.” Her lips curved in a slight smile. “I’ve no doubt if it was Ron, he’d have managed to make a Slytherin snake do something unspeakable. Malfoy’s certainly turned out… well, hasn’t he?”

Harry nodded. “Really well.” He grimaced. “And I managed to smash my face into his window, then fall on my arse in front of his shop.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Gods, just kill me, Hermione. I’ll never be able to look the man in the face again.”

She reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “You did. But if you’ll remember, he was concerned enough to come out and check on you. He sent Eddy for Ron and me. And Merlin, Harry, he could have been really…”

“’Old Malfoy’ about it,” Harry finished for her. Her eyes sparkled.

“Maybe he noticed Harry Potter has turned out really well, too.”

“You’re biased.” Harry felt his face heat.

“I also have extremely good eye sight.” She leaned back in her seat, seemingly extremely pleased with herself.

TBC


	7. Dress Robes and Fairy Wine

One of the things that Harry both approved of and dreaded was the yearly Yule Ball, held on the last Friday of term, the night before the students who were leaving caught the Hogwarts Express to London to go home for hols. Before the war the Ball had been a part of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, but given that there was no longer a Tri-Wizard Tournament (having a champion die and a Dark Lord reborn during the climax of the last one had convinced the powers that be they were a bad idea) the Ball had been adopted as a yearly celebration of having survived, and flourished. The dress was uniformly formal, and Harry stood near the entrance to the Great Hall in his stark black and white dress robes. He’d had to buy new ones in deference to his new height and width of shoulder, but he thought the style suited him, and he freely admitted he didn’t have much creativity. Clearly, not like seventh years Holmsby and Caruthers, who stood laughing with their friends at the far end of the refreshment table.

Caruthers, who Harry thought was probably responsible for what he and his boyfriend were wearing, had on a fitted suit in a very…unusual design. The background looked to be burgundy with berries, green bells running in neat lines from his shoulders to the burgundy trainers on his feet. Even his tie was same fabric, lined up perfectly with his jacket. Holmsby stood next to him, gamely holding his hand, wearing a similarly tailored suit, only his was bright red with green trees and snowmen tumbling over the surface of the fabric. His trainers were black, and the two of them over all took the prize for standing out in a crowd.

“I feel as if I should give them detention,” Minerva said, pausing at his side, nibbling on a cracker as she eyed the two young men. “I just have no earthly idea what for.”

Harry grinned. “Horrendous taste? Being offensive to everyone’s sensibilities?”

The corner of her mouth quirked. “Wearing something so ugly it shouldn’t be allowed out of a cupboard? Although if I was going to do that I would have had to start with Weasley all those years ago. Those robes were truly hideous.”

“They really were,” Harry agreed. “Poor bloke. I think they’d hit the back of the family formal robe closet before they got to him. Those had to be at least a hundred years old.”

“And grotesque,” she agreed. She studied him for a moment. “You’re looking sharp.”

“Thank you,” he said with a slight bow. “So are you.” 

And she was. She was wearing her typical tartan but it had an outer robe of midnight blue spangled with sparking stars. 

“Thank you.” She gave him a regal nod of her head. “Have you done your tour of the carriages yet?”

Harry remembered Snape throwing couples out of the carriages parked in the courtyard. 

“No, not yet. I thought I’d give them a chance to dance and get all worked up first.”

Minerva laughed. “I’ll take the first tour then. They’re always so satisfyingly mortified when it’s me.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ll just bet.”

“Ah, here are your friends,” she said as Ron and Hermione came through the door. Harry turned, surprised to see them. Hermione was wearing lovely robes in a deep bronze that highlighted her golden brown hair, which she was wearing in a French twist, and her unusual brown eyes. Beside her Ron was wearing robes much like Harry’s in a brown so dark it looked black. He was sure Hermione had selected them, and they looked elegant and very grown up. Sometimes it took seeing them like that for it to smack Harry in the face that they were nearing the end of their twenties. 

“Headmistress,” Hermione said with a respectful dip of her head.

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” she replied. “Mr. Weasley.” Ron gave her a wide smile. “I’m off to scare students out of carriages. Can I count on you to take a shift later?”

“Absolutely,” Ron agreed quickly. Harry gave him a quizzical look. “It’s my favorite thing.” He shrugged. “I like the terror on their faces.”

“You’re horrid.” Hermione shook her head. Minerva had just walked away when Hermione’s expression turned horrified. 

“What?” Harry said, following her line of vision to the end of the refreshment table. 

“What in Merlin’s name are Holmsby and Caruthers wearing?”

“Gift wrap.” Ron shrugged off the hideous suits. “What can I get you, Hermione?”

“I’ll take some of the fairy made wine, if they have it.”

Ron bussed her on the cheek then turned to Harry. “What about you, mate?”

“I’ll pass. I’m on security and supervision tonight, and I’d prefer to keep a clear head.”

“Probably a good plan.” He winked then wandered over to the bar that had been set up in a corner. They had non-alcoholic beverages for the students, and something with more bite for their chaperones. 

“You look very handsome,” Hermione said to Harry, smiling slightly. 

“And you’re lovely,” he countered. “And there must be something more interesting to talk about than how we look.”

She laughed, and it was a lovely sound. 

“Oh, there is,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Guess who I saw today?”

Harry’s heart lurched. “I have no idea.”

She angled her head. “Liar.”

Harry tried for affronted and failed miserably. “Fine. Who did you see, as if I didn’t already know?”

“He actually stopped by the store today and I happened to just be getting home.”

“He went to WWW?” Harry couldn’t imagine Malfoy in the joke shop.

“He did. To find me, but more importantly to find out how you are.”

Harry’s heart steadied, then sped up. “He asked how I was?”

“He did,” she touched his arm. “You know Minerva put out an invitation to the townspeople to come to the ball this year.”

Harry’s mouth was suddenly dry. “I didn’t.”

“We seem to be the first to arrive, but I know Rosie is planning to come, along with some others. I think it’s a wonderful idea. These kids visit their businesses every Hogsmeade weekend. It might be nice for them to see them as people.”

Harry had missed most of what she’d said after telling him Minerva had invited the residents of Hogsmeade. “Is he coming tonight?” he asked softy. Harry didn’t even know if he lived in Hogsmeade, or Apparated in. She gave him a coy smile. 

“He didn’t say,” she answered. “But…” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, my,” she said appreciatively. “I think you should turn around.”

Harry couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t seem to turn around, either. Gently, Hermione reached out and took his elbow, turning him toward the wide, stately entrance to the Hall.

TBC


	8. Red, Blue, Green and Gold

_Harry had missed most of what she’d said after telling him Minerva had invited the townspeople. “Is he coming tonight?” he asked softy. Harry didn’t even know if he lived in Hogsmeade, or apparatedApparated in. She gave him a coy smile._

_“He didn’t say,” she answered. “But…” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, my,” she said appreciatively. “I think you should turn around.”_

_Harry couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t seem to turn around, either. Gently, Hermione reached out and took his elbow, turning him toward the wide, stately entrance to the Hall._

He knew what to expect. After all, he’d been staring at Draco Malfoy for a long time. There’d been a couple of gaps; one when Malfoy disappeared after Dumbledore was killed, then again after his trial. He’d seen him puffed up with his father’s money and desperately thin and pale during the hours of testimony at the Wizengamot. One thing Harry had always thought about Malfoy, at least from the first moment he realized girls just weren’t his thing but blokes certainly were, was that he was beautiful. Pointy, snarky, sometimes an enormous arse, but physically gorgeous. 

Tonight was no exception. 

He wasn’t wearing dress robes, but he wasn’t wearing one of those black Armani suits he’d favored during sixth year, either. His gray slacks were snug with a pleat as sharp as the edge of a knife, and they made his legs look a mile long. A v-neck jumper in a deep forest green was a stunning counterpoint to his fair skin and gleaming white blond hair, and beneath it he wore a gray button down and a thin black tie. Over that was a calf length, winter white wool coat with sleeves that came to a point on the back of his hands and a collar that stood up behind his head, and he looked like he’d just stepped off of the pages of Wizard’s Weekly.

“Figures.”

Ron’s voice startled Harry out of his inability to look away, and he turned to his friend. “What?”

Ron handed his wife a glass of wine and gestured with his head. “The one night of the year I crawl into this bloody suit, and that wanker shows up looking like that and no one will even notice.”

Hermione gave him a warm smile. “I notice, and aren’t I really the only one that matters?”

He returned her smile, then leaned in and gave her a quick kiss. “That you are, beautiful.”

Her eyes were shining when she looked back to Harry. “Aren’t you going to go over and welcome him?” She leaned in close, her voice lowered. “Think what it took for him to come back here, Harry. I don’t think he’s been on campus the grounds since the final battle.”

Harry looked over at Malfoy again, as intimidated as he’d ever been in his life. Malfoy was eyeing the room with the kind of cool self-control Harry doubted he’d ever have. “Oh, I don’t know, Hermione. He doesn’t really look like he needs company.”

She gave him a long suffering gaze. “Harry, honestly. He’s always been the best actor in the room.”

That gave him pause. Was it true? He remembered the arrogantly lifted chin, even when he’d lost so much weight his clothes hung on him and his skin had been the color of old parchment, and he thought Hermione might be right.

He squared his shoulders and she patted his arm. “Well done, you,” she whispered. “He keeps glancing this way. I don’t think you’ll find it as difficult as you think.”

He looked at Malfoy, at the gaze that swept over the crowd and seemed to say ‘I’m better than all of you’, and doubted it, but he was committed now.

The distance between his friends and the man in the doorway seemed more like a mile than a few yards, but he still managed to get there before he was ready. Malfoy’s gaze swiveled to him as he approached, and Harry’s heart began to pound at the cool expression on his face. But the more Harry looked at him, the more he saw the small flicker of apprehension in his eyes, and that small amount of uneasiness eased Harry’s jitters a bit.

“Malfoy,” he said when he stopped in front of him.

“Potter.” Malfoy’s eyes moved over Harry from his head to his feet and back again. Harry didn’t think he’d ever been so elegantly cruised in his life. It brought a slight smile to his lips. “Something funny?” The chill in Malfoy’s voice could have caused frost bite.

“Not at all. I was just thinking you clean up nicely.”

Malfoy’s brows shot up. “When have I ever not cleaned up well?”

Harry laughed. “Point.”

“You on the other hand,” Malfoy went on. “I confess to being pleasantly surprised.”

“Thank you. I think.” Harry gave him a wry look.

“Oh, it was a compliment. Much to my surprise. However did you manage to tame that hair?” 

Harry gestured behind him. “Hermione finally found a spell that would work for both of us about a decade ago.”

“I should have known.” Malfoy looked around the room. “I think I like this décor better than all of the ice fourth year.”

Hogwarts looked like a Dickensonian show place. There were a dozen massive trees, all decorated in the house colors of gold, green, red and blue. Giant round ornaments hung from branches laden with magically preserved snow, and fairies bobbed amongst the decorations, glowing softly. Huge presents wrapped in the house colors were bunched around the bottom of the trees, reflecting the light. The fireplaces and braziers were festooned in garlands and elaborate ribbon, and the refreshment table was weighed down with every kind of hors d’oeuvre imaginable. House-elves in gleaming white tea towels with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on the front moved smoothly amongst the guests, trays laden with more food held above their heads. 

“I guess it is -- homier,” Harry agreed. 

“Than giant ice castles and enchanted snow falling from the ceiling? I would say. I was cold all evening.”

“I seem to recall you and Parkinson having what looked like a good time.”

“You’re not very observant then,” Malfoy sniffed. “She kept trying to take me to one of the carriages in the courtyard because she wanted to get laid, and I was more interested in trying to get into Krum’s pants.”

Harry laughed. “I think he was more interested in his date.”

“Ah, yes. The lovely Ms Granger, who wasn’t remotely interested in _him_. And then there was your date…”

“Yeah, poor Parvati. I proved to be a terrible disappointment.” Harry slipped his hands into his pockets, holding back the sides of his long robes and rocking back on his heels. “I think she expected a much more entertaining evening.”

“Don’t be silly. You were a tri-wizard champion, and she lived off of stories about how you relieved her of her virginity for months.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “I did not.”

“Oh, I know,” Malfoy said, looking amused. “But it certainly improved her stock, right up until the _Prophet_ called you a lunatic.”

“Ah, yes,” Harry said dryly. “Good times.”

“So, did you want something?” Malfoy asked almost pleasantly. “Or did you just take pity on me, standing here like a wallflower?”

“Actually,” Harry pulled his courage together, “I was just wondering if you’d like to join me for a drink.”

Malfoy blinked, as if caught off guard. “You’re serious.”

Harry nodded, not sure whether to be amused or offended. “I am, actually.”

Malfoy’s cool gaze held his, and Harry held his breath.


	9. The Fire Is So Delightful

_“Actually,” Harry pulled his courage together, “I was just wondering if you’d like to join me for a drink.”_

_Malfoy blinked, as if caught off guard. “You’re serious.”_

_Harry nodded, not sure whether to be amused or offended. “I am, actually.”_

_Malfoy’s cool gaze held his, and Harry held his breath._

******

“Well, in that case,” large gray eyes moved over his face, “I think I’d like that.”

Air flowed into Harry’s lungs so quickly it made him feel light-headed, and he realized just how much that acceptance meant to him. He stepped back and gestured toward the bar, and they fell into step side by side, moving through the scarce crowd along the edges of the room. The Weird Sisters were playing the Ball this year as a personal favor to the headmistress, (and sometime Harry swore he would get the full story out of Minerva about how she knew the rock band) and the younger crowd was bunched around the stage at the far end of the room, buzzing like a hive in excited anticipation. 

“What would you like?” Harry asked when they reached the bar.

Malfoy glanced at the selection of bottles on the bar back. “I think I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”

The bartender nodded, then looked at Harry with unguarded admiration. “And you, sir?”

One of Malfoy’s mobile brows arched in amusement. Harry didn’t consider himself a ‘sir’ to anyone but a Hogwarts student, but looking at the kid he probably wasn’t more than a few years out of school. Harry managed a strained smile. “Just a Butter Beer, please.”

Malfoy gave him a sardonic look, then comprehension dawned. “Ah, chaperoning.” Harry nodded. Malfoy chuckled. “Gods, who’d have thought.”

“Not me,” Harry said, accepting his mug of the buttery, sweet drink. “I thought I’d be an Auror, not a babysitter.”

The young man handed Malfoy a crystal tumbler with a single, large round ice cube in it, an inch of amber liquid in the bottom, and Harry pulled a ten galleon note out of his pocket and pushed it into the tip jar. He gave Harry a brilliant smile, dimples popping, and Harry thought he looked like a baby. They wandered a few feet from the bar, near the merrily burning fire in the massive fireplace. Padded armchairs had been placed in conversation groups near the warmth of the fires, and they settled into two of them. 

“How are you, by the way?” Malfoy asked. Harry frowned in incomprehension. “I’d assumed you must have hurt yourself in that fall.”

“Oh!” Harry’s face felt hot. “I’m fine.”

An awkward silence settled. 

Finally, Malfoy crossed his long legs in a show of casualness. “I’d wondered, you know.”

Harry looked over at him. “About what?”

“About why you weren’t an Auror.”

Harry shifted his gaze to the roaring fire, thinking back to how completely exhausted he’d been by the end of the war. Where ridding the Wizarding World of every single dark wizard had once sounded like the perfect career, Harry realized during the months of trials and funerals that he just didn’t have the taste for it any longer. He’d taken his NEWTs and gone to Uni with Hermione, unsure exactly what his future would hold. He’d considered starting a charitable foundation or an orphanage, and still might if he ever retired. The only person more surprised than he was that he’d settled on teaching had been Ron. But then, Ron went to work with George, eventually taking over the Hogsmeade branch of WWW. The only one of the three of them who’d actually taken the career path they’d considered as kids was Hermione.

“I just didn’t want to keep doing it.” Harry finally answered Malfoy’s question. “I was tired of fighting.”

Malfoy nodded soberly. “I can understand that. I think we all were.” He paused for a moment. “I think you should perhaps consider that you’re making more of a difference to the Wizarding World right where you are. Teaching.” 

Harry looked at him quizzically. “How so?”

“Who would have more of an impact on the Hogwarts students than the wizard who defeated the Dark Lord? You know more about Defense than anyone still alive. They’re lucky to have you.”

Harry felt his face heat. He was startled that Malfoy would pay him such lavish compliments. “I imagine I’m getting to the age now where some of them have no idea who I am.”

Malfoy gave him a look that said how ridiculous he thought that was, but he held his silence. 

“May I ask you a question?” Harry said, wanting to change the subject. He’d never been comfortable when people said things like that. He knew it had to be him to kill Voldemort, but he certainly hadn’t won the war alone. Malfoy himself had contributed when he hadn’t told his Aunt Bellatrix it was Harry that night at the Manor, after Hermione cast the stinging hex on his face, disfiguring his features. The war would have been over the moment Voldemort arrived if Malfoy had acknowledged it was Harry.

“You can ask,” Malfoy responded. “There’s no guarantee I’ll answer.”

Harry grinned. “When did you decide on tattooing?”

Malfoy looked startled. “Are you actually interested, or just see an opportunity to take the Mickey?”

It was Harry’s turn to be startled. “Why would I do that?”

“There was a time when you would have.”

“There was a time when I used curses without knowing what they did,” Harry countered, somber. “Fortunately, we’re no longer sixteen.”

“We all did stupid things,” Malfoy agreed, shaking his head. “A lot of it better forgotten. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I was intentionally an obnoxious little bastard, and I think that’s much worse.” 

And just like that, Harry was absolved of a sin that still haunted him. He stared into Malfoy’s eyes, suddenly struck with the urge to slip his hand around the long neck and pull him in for a kiss. He managed not to, but it was a near thing. The impulse startled him.

“So, tattooing,” Malfoy said, returning to Harry’s question. “The truth?” Harry nodded, genuinely curious. “I was looking for someone to remove the Dark Mark. I think I’d have tried to carve it out myself if I hadn’t found McDowell, I hated it so much.”

“McDowell?”

“Dermot McDowell. Master Magical Tattoo Artist, in Edinburgh. He was a genius.” Malfoy took a sip of his drink, then set it carefully on a nearby table. “Because Voldemort was dead, the mark no longer had any power other than it couldn’t be removed. But McDowell realized it could be covered.”

Harry thought of the dark mark, how black and ugly it had looked on Malfoy’s pale skin. He couldn’t imagine what it had been covered with. 

“With what?” he finally asked. “I mean…”

“It’s not as dark as it was,” Malfoy said, his voice nearly drowned out by the sudden blare of music from the other end of the huge room. Without thinking, Harry cast a Muffliato. It didn’t create silence, but it muffled the sound. “It got lighter, when he died.” Malfoy was leaning in and it dawned on Harry they probably looked as if they were deep in intimate conversation, heads close together. He could smell Malfoy’s cologne, and it was a sharp, citrusy smell. It made his heart race and his head light.

“I still can’t imagine what could have covered it, not completely.” Harry knew he sounded breathless, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. 

Malfoy’s eyes were so close, so wide, a deep storm cloud gray. The light of the fire reflected in them, and the fairy lights on the Christmas trees. They were hypnotic. Harry couldn’t have looked away from them if he’d tried.

“McDowell was brilliant, and the cover up is impressive. Maybe I’ll show you – sometime.”

Now Malfoy sounded breathless, too, and they seemed to be closed off in a little bubble of space, leaning in toward one another, the only two people in the room…

TBC


	10. Jingle Bell Rock

_Malfoy’s eyes were so close, so wide, a deep storm cloud gray. The light of the fire reflected in them, and the fairy lights on the Christmas trees. They were hypnotic. Harry couldn’t have looked away from them if he’d tried._

_“McDowell was brilliant, and the cover up is impressive. Maybe I’ll show you – sometime.”_

_Now Malfoy sounded breathless, too, and they seemed to be closed off in a little bubble of space, leaning in toward one another, the only two people in the room…_

“Harry Potter, sir?”

The high pitched voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and Harry jerked back, dragging his eyes away from Malfoy’s. Dobby, the house-elf who had pretty much popped up at every inopportune moment in Harry’s life, was standing in front of his chair, huge bat-like ears quivering. Only the fact that he’d saved Harry and his friends from Malfoy Manor kept Harry from hexing him into the next week.

“Yes, Dobby?” he sighed.

“Apologies, Harry Potter.” For once in his life apparently Dobby realized he’d interrupted something. “But the Headmistress would like for me to tell you that it’s your turn to be touring the courtyard?”

“Oh, right.” He gave Malfoy an apologetic look as he stood. “Duty calls.”

“The courtyard?” Malfoy asked.

“Those carriages Parkinson kept trying to talk you into. She isn’t the only one in the history of this castle who wanted to get laid. It’s my job to prevent it if I can, at least for the next hour.”

“Kill joy.” Malfoy started to stand.

“Oh, please stay, enjoy your drink. If you’re still here in an hour, well, then we can talk.”

“I doubt I will still be here. I’ve an engagement.”

Harry felt his heart sink. He assumed that meant Malfoy had a date.

“Oh, sure.” Harry managed an anemic smile. 

“But, if you happen to be in Hogsmeade, perhaps – we could meet for drinks, or…”

Scarcely able to believe his luck, Harry jumped at the opportunity. “I’d like that – a lot.”

Malfoy smiled slightly. “Good. Well, I’ll be going, then.”

“Let me walk you out.”

Malfoy looked up at him with an amused quirk of his lips. “I thought duty called.” He gestured toward Dobby, who twisted his fingers in the front of his tea towel.

“I’ll walk you as far as the courtyard, then.”

Malfoy smiled faintly. “All right.”

“Tell Minerva I’m on my way to rescue student virtue, Dobby.”

“Yes, Harry Potter.” Dobby disappeared with a pop, and Harry gestured towards the side Great Hall doors that led to the courtyard. 

Malfoy linked his hands at his lower back as they walked. “Rescuing student virtue, is it?” he said, sounding entertained. “You do understand that there are any number of broom cupboards and tapestry hidden alcoves in the old place?” 

“Oh, yes.” Harry pushed his hands into his pockets, in no hurry to perform his chaperone duties. “I’m aware.”

“Personally, or, peripherally?” Malfoy’s lips twitched into a grin.

Harry pretended outrage. “Are you suggesting I never tried out an alcove or two in my youth?”

“Whenever did you have time? Between saving the world and all that.” 

“I had a girlfriend or two,” Harry protested. “It wasn’t all being the ‘boy who lived’.”

“You did?” Malfoy pretended to think about it. “Oh, that’s right. Chang, and then the Weaslette.”

“She would smack the hell out of you for that.”

Malfoy rubbed his chin wryly. “Her Bat Bogey hex was bad enough. I’ll pass on her left hook.”

Harry grinned. 

The temperature had dropped significantly in the last few hours, and the snow had begun to fall heavily. Harry studied the carriages and saw the ones with the fogged windows, and shook his head. 

“They always think they’re the first ones to discover the inside of a carriage.”

Malfoy smiled slowly. “So did we.” He pointed to the one at the far end, which was rocking from side to side. “Severus would have gone for that one first, but I’d let them finish. He enjoyed taking points from blokes with their pants around their knees just a little too much.”

He winked at Harry, then nodded before walking away.

Harry watched him go, wishing he didn’t have a job to do, trying to convince himself that. Malfoy disappeared down a set of stairs that led to the path into Hogsmeade, and Harry watched even after he was gone. Then with a sigh, he turned to the carriages, leaving the one at the far end until last.

TBC


	11. Mincemeat and Gingerbread and Belly Aches

_Malfoy smiled slowly. “So did we.” He pointed to the one at the far end, which was rocking from side to side. “Severus would have gone for that one first, but I’d let them finish. He enjoyed taking points from blokes with their pants around their knees just a little too much.”_

_He winked at Harry, then nodded before walking away._

_Harry watched him go, wishing he didn’t have a job to do. Malfoy disappeared down a set of stairs that led to the path into Hogsmeade, and Harry watched even after he was gone. Then with a sigh, he turned to the carriages, leaving the one at the far end until last._

Harry didn’t enjoy clearing the carriages. Causing the kids embarrassment had never been high on his list of things he liked to do. Particularly that last carriage; he knew some of the prof’s loved the idea of catching students with their ‘pants down’, as it were. Not Harry. Reducing a sixth year girl to tears because her gown was still in a pile in the corner didn’t make Harry’s night. At that point all he could really do was hope they’d used protection and send them on their way.

He followed them back into the Great Hall, his ears instantly assaulted by the noise of The Weird Sisters. He grimaced and cast a spell to take the volume down a decibel or two. He made the rounds of the edges of the room, broke up a budding ‘mosh pit’, then spotted Hermione and Ron standing near the banquet table. He grabbed another butter beer off of a house-elf’s tray and wandered in their direction.

“You know if you eat another one of those, you’re going to spend the night with a stomach ache,” Hermione was saying.

“No I won’t,” Ron replied, taking a huge bite of what Harry could see was a mince pasty.

“Yes, you will,” he and Hermione said in unison, and she turned to him with a smile. 

“Well, that looked like it was going well,” she said brightly.

Harry’s shrug was non-committal. “Yeah, I guess. Until I had to go toss a bunch of kids out of carriages. Sometimes this whole professor gig is over-rated.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ron said, spilling crumbs down the front of his robes. Hermione rolled her eyes and brushed them away. “I sort of like that part.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to ‘interrupt’ a couple, then look into their faces the next day. It’s just awkward for everyone.”

“So, are you going to tell us?” Hermione’s look was insistent.

“There’s not that much to tell, Hermione.” Harry looked at a plate of Christmas cookies, then grimaced and decided to pass. They were beautiful, as was all of the food at Hogwarts, but his stomach was unsettled. “He did say something about maybe meeting for drinks, but there was nothing definitive.”

Her face lit up. “But that’s good. Now you just have to act on it. And the timing is perfect.”

“How so?” Harry turned away from the food just as Ron picked up another pasty. One thing Harry knew they could always count on; Ron being able to put away more food than anyone else in the room. The day he wasn’t eating was the day something was really wrong. Hermione glared at him.

“I will not sit up with you all night while you moan and groan.”

Ron shrugged and pushed the rest of the treat into his mouth.

“How is the timing perfect?” he said through a mouthful of mincemeat, clearly trying to avert her attention from himself to Harry.

“It’s perfect because hols start tomorrow.” She turned to Harry, her expression intent. “Seriously, Harry. If there was ever a perfect time to ask him out, it’s now. You can go for drinks in Hogsmeade without a school full of teenagers gaping at one of their professors.”

“I imagine he’s pretty used to being gaped at by now, Hermione.” Ron picked up a large gingerbread boy and bit his head off. “First he was ‘the boy who lived’, then in fifth year he was ‘the boy who was mad’. After he took out Voldemort, he was ‘the boy who killed the Dark Lord’. I imagine being ‘the prof who’s having drinks with another bloke’ is a nice change of pace. As long as he’s not caught somewhere with Malfoy with his pants down. That would just be the other side of too much, know what I mean?”

Harry and Hermione both stared at him incredulously. 

“What?” 

Hermnione plucked the cookie from his hand. “That’s enough sugar for you. I’m cutting you off. Caught with his pants down. Honestly, Ronald. As if that would ever happen.” 

“I don’t imagine anyone thought he’d land on his arse in front of Malfoy’s shop either, but that happened, didn’t it?”

“Thanks so much for reminding me, Ron.” Harry gave him a sardonic look.

“Anytime, Mate.” Ron winked at him.

“So, what are you going to do next?” Hermione snatched another cookie out of Ron’s hand with a quelling look.

“Oi!” Ron complained. She glared at him, then turned an expectant look on Harry.

He spread his hands slowly. “No idea.”

“Oh, Harry. Really, you are just hopeless. At the least send the man an owl, telling him you enjoyed the conversation. Something!”

Later, when he’d done his final rounds and sent the last of the amorous teenagers off to bed, he remembered her words. 

“An owl, huh?” he mused. He stripped out of his formal robes and sat at his desk in his slacks and shirt sleeves, studying the empty piece of parchment for a very long time. Finally he picked up his quill. 

TBC


	12. Keeping Things Simple

_Later, when he’d done his final rounds and sent the last of the amorous teenagers off to bed, he remembered Hermione's words._

_“An owl, huh?” he mused. He stripped out of his formal robes and sat at his desk in his slacks and shirt sleeves, studying the empty piece of parchment for a very long time. Finally he picked up his quill._

He spent the next five minutes tapping his bottom lip with the gray feather. Hermione had gone to the more efficient fountain pen, but Harry liked trimming the nib, dipping it into the ink. He used a green so dark in was nearly black, and his penmanship had improved a lot since his school days. Some of that had to do with a Uni prof who wrote on one of his essays that writing unintelligibly was not the answer to producing a decent paper, nor acquiring a decent grade. Hermione being reduced to hysterics when he told her convinced him that practicing his penmanship was probably a necessity. The problem now wasn’t how the words looked, it was what he wanted them to say. 

He liked this new Malfoy. A lot. He loved the way his hair was shaved on one side of his head, then swooped down over his right eye in a white curl. He wanted to peal his clothes off of that neat, trim body and study his tattoo, but he didn’t think just popping off with _‘hey, Malfoy, I really like you and I want to see where that tattoo that climbs into your collar goes’_ was quite the way to go about it. Every time he saw the man, desire shot down his spine and pooled in his groin, but that wasn’t a conversation starter either. Harry sighed and tossed the quill onto the top of his desk, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the darkened ceiling. 

Harry had never been good with words, ever. And he hadn’t had a serious relationship since Ginny. He’d seriously considered marrying her, even once he’d realized he’d rather sleep with Charlie than with her. The idea of not marrying into the Weasley family had been heart breaking. He hadn’t known how to break it off with her, not without hurting Molly and Arthur in the process. It had been the hardest thing he’d gone through since the war, trying to think of the words to say he loved her, but he wasn’t _in love_ with her. Then Ginny had bailed him out by telling her parents she’d fallen in love with Neville. 

After Ginny there had been a series of hook ups, and the words for those weren’t difficult. “Is there a back room? An alley will work. Watch your teeth.” He stayed mostly to Muggle places, because the last thing he wanted was the headline of the _Prophet_ to read something like ‘Potter, the Boy Who Loves Boys’ and there was really only one gay bar in Diagon Alley. He’d been there once, with Hermione. They’d both been Polyjuiced, and the whole evening had been hilarious. He couldn’t imagine picking someone up while out with his best friend, and she kept trying to figure out what his ‘type’ was, pointing out man after man. He’d been nineteen and just out, and at that point his type had been pretty much anyone with a cock, although he’d always tended toward thin, tall blonds. Hermione, being brilliant, had picked up on that pretty quickly. 

Now the only blond he’d ever really wanted had indicated he’d be amenable to drinks at least, and Harry had no bloody idea how to ask him to go. He got up and wandered around his quarters, his hands in his pockets, frowning as he stared at the floor. Flowery words and clever phrases were not his style, they never had been. He walked over to the large cage in the corner that held his snowy owl, Lena. He’d named her after Helena Ravenclaw, because she had a soft gray tinge to the underside of her feathers, and he’d never forget the help the ‘Gray Lady’ had given him during the siege of Hogwarts. He thought he’d never own another owl after Hedwig was killed, but once again it was Hermione who’d changed his mind, and who’d gifted him with the gentle little owl for his thirtieth birthday. He opened the cage door and reached out, and she rubbed her head against his hand.

“I don’t know how to do this, girl,” he murmured. “This one feels important, and I don’t want to muck it up.”

She looked up at him, huge golden eyes blinking slowly. She nipped at his finger, and he smiled.

“I know what you want.” He reached behind him for the box of owl treats and shook a few into his hand. “Your needs are pretty simple.” 

She delicately took one of the mouse flavored treats from his hand. He really didn’t want to know how the manufacturer knew what ‘mouse flavored’ tasted like, but she loved them. He scratched her head while she chewed and swallowed. 

“Actually, my needs aren’t any more complicated than yours, I don’t think. But I doubt I’d impress him with ‘So, drinks Friday?’” He paused as he shook another few treats into his hand. He wasn’t trying to be anyone else, was he? He wasn’t a complicated person. He couldn’t be that, not even for Malfoy. Why start with flowery words if he couldn’t go on with them?

He fed her another treat, then went back to his desk, leaving the cage door open. Lena followed him moments later, landing on the back of his chair, as always sensing when he was going to need her.

He dipped his quill into the glass bottle and tapped off the excess ink.

_Malfoy_ he wrote, then stopped and siphoned the ink from the paper. Might as well begin as he wanted to go on. 

_Draco_ , he wrote instead, feeling a little thrill at seeing the name on the parchment, _I’d like to take you out. Can I buy you a drink Friday evening?_ Below that he signed, _Harry_

Without giving himself time to think about it, he folded the parchment and sealed it with a daub of black wax. Affixing it to Lena’s leg with a leather tie, he took her onto his forearm and walked to his window. 

“Short trip this time, girl,” he murmured. “But important.”

He held out his arm and she launched herself into the air. Nerves attacking his stomach, he exhaled explosively and watched her until she was a speck in the night sky. 

TBC


	13. Color and Life

_Without giving himself time to think about it, he folded the parchment and sealed it with a daub of black wax. Affixing it to Lena’s leg with a leather tie, he took her onto his forearm and walked to his window._

_“Short trip this time, girl,” he murmured. “But important.”_

_He held out his arm and she launched herself into the air. Nerves attacking his stomach, he exhaled explosively and watched her until she was a speck in the night sky._

Harry’s nerves hadn’t let up in three days, not even when Lena returned within the half hour, pecking delicately on the window to be let in. He untied the parchment from her leg, fingers trembling as he unfolded the missive to read.

_Potter_ , it said, then in parenthesis _(forgive me; I’m not sure I’m ready to call you ‘Harry’, but I’ll work on it). I think drinks on Friday sounds like an excellent idea. I have a late appointment, but should be done by ten, if that’s acceptable. D. Malfoy._

Rather than being offended by Draco’s refusal to use his first name, it made Harry snort, a grin pulling at his lips. It was so very – Malfoy, and part of what made him so attractive to Harry. He never had to worry about Draco only wanting to date him because he was ‘Harry Potter’, war hero. He also never had to worry about him puffing up Harry’s ego. Just the idea made him laugh. He put the parchment on his desk and took up his pen. 

_I’ll meet you at your shop. H. Potter._ He’d smiled as he affixed it back to Lena’s leg. She was back again within a few minutes, scaly leg bare. Harry assumed that meant it was a date.

Now all of his amusement faded as he entered Hogsmeade. Brightly colored fairy lights were strung across the narrow streets and along the fronts of the picturesque buildings, and Christmas Carols sounded softly on the cold evening air. He didn’t see carolers, but that didn’t mean anything. The ghost choir sang in the halls at Hogwarts all of the time and was only visible about half of that. The hard snow crunched under his boots and his breath made a soft cloud of condensation as he walked. It had turned bitterly cold and he had his gloved hands shoved down into the pockets of his overcoat, a chunky green scarf wrapped around his throat. It wasn’t snowing, but the air felt heavy, like it was only a matter of time.

There was a crowd moving between the shops, open late for the customers buying holiday gifts. He smiled slightly as he passed WWW; the shop was a kaleidoscope of noise and color, fireworks exploding above the store and the rabbit perched on the head of the fanciful depiction of Fred Weasley belting out a rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Harry laughed as the sound of belches and passing gas reached his ears as he walked by, and he shook his head, thinking the old line about men never growing out of the sense of humor they had when they were twelve must be true. 

Up ahead light shone from the windows of Malfoy’s shop, glinting on the snow which sparkled as if someone had sprinkled it with glitter. Harry paused outside, looking through the spotless glass. Malfoy was on the stool where Harry had first seen him, leaning over a woman’s upper back where he was filling in color on a beautiful tattoo of butterflies hovering over brilliant tiger lilies. As Harry watched, the colorful wings spread and then fluttered, and the flowers seemed to glow. Without even thinking, Harry reached out and opened the door. The bell above tinkled brightly, and Harry glanced up in surprise. 

“Hello.”

He looked back to Malfoy, whose eyes had lifted and who was looking at him expectantly.

“Oh, hi.” 

Harry suddenly had a horrifying thought. He met the woman’s eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t just walk in on you like that – “

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Baby, I don’t care if you don’t.”

Malfoy shook his head. “Don’t traumatize the man, Neecia. It’s the first time he’s watched a tat in process before.”

Harry closed the door behind himself, feeling very exposed with both Malfoy’s and the woman’s eyes on him. He shoved his hands back into his pockets and took a few steps forward. Stopping a few feet away, he dropped his eyes to the tattoo again. 

“That’s spectacular.”

Draco’s cheeks colored and he lowered his eyes back to his work. “Thank you.” He lowered the tattoo gun in his hand back to his work, filling in a glowing orange on the flower petals. 

“No, you’re really good,” Harry said, wanting Draco to understand he meant it. “This is beautiful, and the griffin you did on Artie Weasley’s arm is stunning.”

Draco smirked. “I thought you might be going to take issue with that.”

“Me? No. His Dad Angelo might, although I haven’t got a howler since the kids left on the train.”

Draco looked up quickly. “Oh, Merlin. I forgot Belasio married Charlie Weasley.”

Harry grinned. “Given that there haven’t been any explosions, I think you’re in the clear.”

Harry could feel the woman’s eyes on him and he gave her a slight smile.

“You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah. I am.”

“You’re all done, Neecia,” Draco said, wiping off the tattoo, then smoothing a lotion over it. “You know the drill.”

“Yeah, yeah. Use the cream, keep it covered, don’t get it wet.”

Malfoy used his wand to cover the tattoo with what looked like cellophane. It was then that Harry took notice of the tattoos on both shoulders and down her left arm. He studied the tattoo of a flowering vine that curled around her forearm, wondering if there was a Dark Mark under it. If there was, it had been spectacularly covered. Her skin was all color and lines and _life_ and Harry couldn’t help looking.

“I thought we might do my right thigh next,” she was saying as she pulled on a lightweight jumper. I’d love to put Squeakers there.”

Draco shook his head, using his wand to clean his gun and put lids on all of the brightly colored dyes. “I can’t believe you’d bother to put a rat on your thigh.”

“I loved that rat,” Neecia said. “And don’t be a snob.” She smacked him on the shoulder as she headed for the door. “I’ll be in touch.” She looked at Harry as she passed him. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” 

She gave him a broad smile and headed out the door. 

“Take care of that tat,” Draco called after her. 

“Yes, mother.” 

Draco chuckled and shook his head, and the door closed behind her. Suddenly, they were alone. 

TBC


	14. Apologies

There will be a delay in the next few days for this story, which may take it into the days following Christmas. My younger brother has suffered a debilitating stroke and has been placed in Hospice care, and I'm his medical power of attorney. I'll finish, I promise, but it will be a few days. Maybe its a good thing that it will run past Christmas? Anyway, I'm sorry. I'll get back to it just as soon as I can. 

Oldenuf2nb


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